Jacket In The Sodium Light
by Experimental
Summary: You don't think first, do you, Lieutenant? Just say whatever happens to come to mind? Kati. Patrick. The end of a 'date'. Vignette.


She with hands in a faux-leather jacket and jeans that fit just right, nothing too fancy but not too casual either, her hair down, slightly curling where it bounces against her shoulder.

He, the only blazer and tie he owns other than his uniform, which he only bought to wear to funerals, but for her he wants at least to look the gentleman they both know he isn't quite.

Bellies fizzy from the beers that were four times more expensive than they should have been. But she's not some flyboy groupie he can take to just any old dive on base. She's a lady, and a colonel; she outranks his arse, and she deserves a proper date.

Even if she still says that word like it's clamped between quotation marks.

-o-

Pausing in the circle of a streetlight, if she smoked she would light a cigarette right now.

Her fingers would flick the lighter—it would be one of those old fashioned, flicky kinds, shiny and metal—and hold the flame steady and businesslike, just like her eyes hold him in their gaze behind their glasses.

She would exhale like an actor in one of those old movies, blowing the smoke off his smoking gun, and he'd commit the scent of her brand to memory.

Even though she doesn't smoke, he loves the version of her that does in his mind.

He loves the version of her that doesn't that's standing right before him even more.

He wants to tell her he loves her so bad, he feels like a pot boiling over. The lid keeps popping up, making an awful racket as it fights hard to stay put, tries with all its might to hold it all in.

He tries to hold it all in.

"I wrote you a song," he blurts out instead.

-o-

She looks at him.

A long pause.

She snorts, but it's really more of a short little hum and a grin. Coming from her, it's the equivalent of someone else throwing back her head and laughing out loud.

"Did you really?"

She doesn't know whether to believe him, or whether this is his attempt at a joke. She suspects he's telling the truth and can't believe he can be that much of a fool.

He doesn't know whether she's flattered or making fun of him, and frankly, he doesn't care.

-o-

At least she looks intrigued. The arch of her brows does seem to indicate intrigue. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the musical type."

"I figured if I could master the mobile suit, a guitar shouldn't give me much trouble."

"And did it?"

He recalls the last few sleepless nights, frustration when the chords just don't come out right, the guys next door telling him to pipe down, but all those images of her still running through his mind at a million miles an hour, grasping for the right words to describe just how she makes him feel, like trying to catch the stars in his hand.

"You have no idea."

She leans back against the lamp post. She raises her eyes, like two violet bullets, gaze sharp like a slap. But a slap from her is like a kiss to his face, and his cheeks grow hot.

She says, "And do you write songs for all your commanding officers, Second Lieutenant?"

"No, Ma'am," he says. "Just you."

-o-

He waits for a reprimand, for a reminder of his place. For the kind of chewing out he gets up early for, and then purposefully arrives late to ensure he'll have an audience when he gets it.

But when none comes, he just keeps talking to fill the space.

"You know how they say some people are good and some people are just lucky? I've always liked to think I was an equal amount of both. I mean, I am undefeated in combat simulation. Or, at least, I was, until that gundam came along. . . .

"But the point is, when I met you I realized that up until then, it was mostly just luck that got me through. I'm the luckiest man alive, Colonel. But since you arrived, suddenly luck doesn't count for half what it used to. I guess what I'm trying to say is, you make me want to be good, genuinely good, because there's no way a guy like me can ever expect to win your heart, let alone deserve it, if he isn't the best he can possibly be.

"That's why I'm going to do everything in my power to get better, Colonel. That's why I'm going to defeat whatever enemy stands in my way. To prove I can be worthy of someone like you. You don't deserve anything less than that.

"You're the golden ring."

-o-

She starts. Her heart hammers. She can feel the blood drain from her face.

But he couldn't have meant what she thought he meant.

"You know," he amends when he sees her reaction, "like on a roundabout—"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I know what a ring-tilt is."

She can't decide whether she wants to laugh in relief, or hit him for nearly scaring her half to death. Of course he didn't mean what she was afraid he meant. He's bright enough, but subtlety, innuendo—those aren't exactly his strong suits.

But he does think she's the highest prize.

-o-

"So, if—"

"When."

"_If,_" she re-emphasizes the word, "you somehow manage to prove yourself worthy of deserving my affections, and supposing you do win them—and I must warn you, Lieutenant, there is a _very _slim chance of that happening, and I would urge you to reconsider this fool's errand of yours if I thought at all you would listen—what do you plan to do with your prize?"

He answers without any hesitation, without any waver in his gaze:

"Wear it like a bright, shiny medal so everyone can see Colonel Mannequin's heart belongs to me, Patrick Colasour, the luckiest man in the universe. Ma'am."

"You don't even think first, do you? Just say whatever happens to come to mind?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And you do realize I plan to resist?"

"It wouldn't be right if it was an easy victory, Ma'am."

-o-

She sighs. She shakes her head.

"Alright, Lieutenant. If that's the way it's going to be. . . ."

For all her tactical training, her proudly logical mind, she can't easily explain to herself why she wants to accept his challenge so bad, with its archaic overtones of chivalry, its poorly thought out objectives. She doesn't want an explanation for it.

And that isn't something she can explain either.

She extends her hand, and tries to keep the smile off her face until they've parted ways, but can't be sure she's entirely successful.

They shake on it, and she tells him, "May the best man win."

He salutes like that was an order, and says, "Thank you, Ma'am. I fully intend to."

* * *

Brilliant title comes from Franz Ferdinand's brilliant "Katherine Kiss Me," albeit a poetical misinterpretation. Still. Check it out.


End file.
